Around the small island of Ibiza are a series of vistas atop steep rocky cliffs that give immediate way to the sea below. The vistas are not difficult to reach. They are well worth the leisurely scramble for a world-class view. Recreationalists approach them, iPhones in hand. We are eager to capture the screensaver-esque expanse below. Dotting the coast line are trees with slender, winding trunks beneath canopy tops. A smattering of sailboats and yachts dot the flat summer sea. Time finally slows down. The boats are in no rush. Almost boastfully so. They have been here all summer. Swimmers and snorkelers circle pools of light blue water, looking below in search of fish-filled-reef. Farther out, a cropping of either very big rocks or very small islands breaks the smooth plane of the water. It is hard not to marvel at the topography. Only on Earth, we think to ourselves. We clamor for pictures and selfies from all angles. The sun drifts down the back wall of the horizon, painting it as it falls. We all want the photo. We all the want more of the moment. Careful. If we take another few steps toward the edge of the cliffs, we almost certainly lose our balance and fall to an immediate death. A few of us inch toward the edge in a low crawl. We peer over. Our stomachs collectively churn in unison. The pulse in my neck throbs. The distance between an idyllic view and unceremonious death is less than a yard on a football field. The duality of nature comes into full focus. Her beauty on one side, her force on the other. Landscapes can take our breath away in one moment. Gravity can take our life away in the next. In nature, the line between serene and deadly is razor thin. 

A meal beside the mediterranean sea makes one appreciative of mankind’s ability to harvest Earth’s natural resources for food. What a joy that we learned to farm, fish, hunt and grow. Meats, fish, potatoes and vegetables—everything plated here has been grown on this land or caught in this sea. Generous and tender meat cuts with juicy red centers and sweet gristle beneath a generous pinch of hand-ground pepper. Whole fish plates baked, roasted and grilled, dressed in permutations of salt and spice and bathed in fresh citrus. Potato wedges with crispy cooked skins and soft yellow centers. Root vegetables, hot off an open-air grill over by the sand dune, skewered together with pineapple sweet enough to make an angry man smile. Homemade sangrias and local wines harvested from grapes down the road. Tonight, dinner is proof Earth has been so very good to us. At least to many of us. Someday hopefully all of us. If we live in Outer Space someday, will they still serve a catch-of-the-day special? Maybe then we will miss our home. 

On the Northwest corner of Ibiza is Punta Galera, a secluded cove with a reputation for the best sunset in all of the Balearic Islands. Punta Galera means “flat rocks” in Spanish, a nod to the local stones. These stones, warm and golden, form a natural amphitheater that faces due west out onto the ocean.  The stones are cooked by the sun, salted by the water and smoothed over by time. They shimmer like gold bricks, ornate gems doting the neckline of nature. The stones lie flat, layers staggered, each extending slightly beyond the last. They are our evening viewing rows, our steps down, out and toward the sea. We the people sit, rest and spend time together atop the gold stones, taking in the view and jumping into the water below. We are strangers from all corners of the world, together on the stones, witnesses to the same moment, looking out at the same horizon. The next generation swims together below. 

Behind us, the gold stones stack atop each other. They form the back wall of the amphitheater. Against it, the wind dies, the sun fades and the sound of the waves rebound back toward the surf. A Spanish man lives in a cave in this gold wall. He plays soft house music and tends bar out of a styrofoam cooler in what I suppose is his outdoor living room. When he drops a beer cap onto the stone, the sound audibly ricochets seven or eight times, each fainter than the last. I am, for a moment, judgmental. Who is he to make his own that which is ours? My judgment is soft and fleeting. Look around and listen. Languages of the world collide softly, ambient chatter filling the evening summer air.  Cannonballers dunk. Children laugh. Drinking glasses clink. Humanity sounds at rest. Humanity seems at rest. Some days this is difficult to believe. Not tonight. 

Tonight’s sunset at Punta Galera is a lustful shade of siren red. It could be a best-selling lipstick, if it isn’t already. Its beauty evokes a full-bodied rush of  awe. It all comes spilling out. It hit a vein. A rush of emotion washes over the moment. The richness of the red is a reminder: of the capacity of existence, of how vivid life can be. Not all moments. But some moments. In this moment, what is often out of sight momentarily comes into view. In this moment, the actuality of living meets the ideal dream of a life. In this moment, I am reminded of how it feels to feel.

The light dims. The darkening red sun balances on the beam of the horizon longer than we expect. Her pace slows. She too wants this to last. When at last we rotate her fully out of sight, we clap and whistle and cheer and toast. Drums play. A young man cannonballs into the ocean. The red glow gives way to a cool violet. This hue of violet is as beautiful as its name. Violet. We prepare to leave. Children clamor over the gold stones in their bare feet and up toward the path home. We are all hungry for dinner.